


Notch and Draw

by capitainpistol



Category: The Children of Húrin, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Enemies to Friends, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 09:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17423714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capitainpistol/pseuds/capitainpistol
Summary: Beleg and Androg's relationship during the CoH.





	Notch and Draw

The first time Beleg Cuthalion saw Androg the Outlaw was not the first time Androg saw him, and the first time they met was not their first encounter. The first time Beleg espied Androg was in secret, though that was not his intent. Beleg meant to show himself and ask for the whereabouts of Turin, trusting in the solidarity of lone bowmen out in the wild. Beleg made the mistake of assuming Men were like of the House of Hador, willing and happy to help their Elf friends.

In the quiet woods on a clear autumn day, Beleg turned his sharp ears to the thrum of a loosed arrow thudding against wood. Another thrum, and then another and another, fast, one after the other. _Skill_. 

The bowman he would come to know and rue as Androg stood atop a small camp set, shooting at the treeline. Another man emerged from the lone tent, half naked and wroth. He argued with the bowman as the bowman drew, notched and loosed, uncaring and bored, focused on his training, until the man forced a confrontation, slapping the bow away and drawing the bowman's ire, a temper meaner and faster than his bowmanship.

Beleg almost intervened, for the men were large and strong, and they were throttling each other, but amidst their fight they began to kiss and laugh and groan, and though it was without gentleness or kindness, they touched and they disappeared into the tent.

Beleg left them, returning to his search and finding the clues that would lead him from the homesteads of Lanarch to the outlaw Neithan, who in truth was Turin, though the people did not know it. 

Turin - Neithan in the wild - had rescued his daughter from rape by the Gurwaith, yet he claimed to be of them. The news troubled Beleg, but in his heart he would not believe Turin would harm anyone for sport, much less women. Saeros was in Mandos rethinking his folly because he dared to insult Turin’s mother and sister and the women of Dor-lomin, and, more simply, Turin had much reverence for them due to his great reverence for his mother and his foster-mother Melian, whom Beleg revered also. 

He was thinking of Turin’s strange fate when he heard the familiar thrum of an arrow. Beleg blinked and evaded the shot surely meant for him, and he barely missed its sting. He had Belthronding stretched and aimed at the emerging shadow.

“Halt there, pretty boy.”

Beleg recognized the bowman. “Boy? I am Beleg Cuthalion.”

“That name’s suppose to mean something to me?”

Beleg swallowed hard, not knowing his pride could be wounded so easily. “And what is yours, oh, great warrior hidden in the woods?”

“I am Androg, just Androg, and I am not a great warrior, aye, but I am hidden. Enough to catch unawares the great Beleg Strongbow of the Hidden Kingdom.”

Beleg frowned. Androg made Doriath sound like a curse.

“And yes, I have heard of you,” laughed Androg without any mirth. “Or rather, I have heard of the beautiful bow and his unfortunate charge.”

“You lie for sport,” spat Beleg, his contempt growing.

“Aye,” he grinned. “I love to _lie_ for sport.”

Unbidden, Beleg smiled, but he quickly rid himself of it and shook his head. “I seek no companionship. My nights are content.”

“Great and arrogant, too. I would never lie with one of you.” 

“Then we are of like mind,” said Beleg. 

Androg was a liar. Crude and mean with a dark riddle dancing behind his eyes, yet he had complimented Belthronding, and Beleg was not without vanity. 

Beleg set aside his bow in a show of submission. “I am looking for Neithan the Outlaw. He will have Elf raiment, and Elven steel, and he will look Elvish.”

“Neithan?”

“Perhaps you have seen him. He may go as a man of the woods like yourself. He would have great repute amongst fighters, a captain maybe.”

“I have never heard of him.”

The lie came as swiftly as if Androg had shot another arrow to target, but Beleg had enough of him. 

“Our business is done.”

Androg was easy to follow, yet Beleg put much distance between them, not wanting to underestimate him. No man, or Elf for that matter, had ever caught him unawares, except Turin, and now this man Turin had trained.

Without Turin’s constant guidance Androg and the outlaws were closer to unseen shadows than to shelter. Beleg found them easily, but they were alone, and their captain nowhere to be found. 

Beleg revealed himself to the outlaws and it was Androg who bound him, grabbing him from behind like a snake, the second time he’d proved his better in the woods.

The outlaws argued amongst themselves about what to do with Beleg. Beleg took careful notice of Androg, who was their captain in Turin’s absence. He was set on killing Beleg, but the other men were more reasonable, if terror of Turin was reason. 

In the end the fellowship won out and Androg was overruled. 

That night Androg came to Beleg and he offered Beleg nothing but spiteful words. He bent to meet Beleg eye to eye.

“The King of Doriath has sent you,” said Androg, as if thinking out loud.

“I told you what I seek. Whom I seek.”

“How long can the Eldar go without water? Man can last a couple days, but that’s if he’s in good health. If not, he may go into shock. I know shit about Elves.”

Beleg looked over at the camp scattered around the fire, warming themselves after a good, hearty meal. He recognized one of them as Androg’s companion on the hill, one of the few that had spoken for him. “Your man. Ulrad is his name?”

“You mean is Ulrad the man I’m fucking, then yes. He wants me to be lenient with you.” Androg smiled that mirthless smile. “I saw you. I saw you looking at us. Did you enjoy it?”

Beleg was unprovoked. “He speaks sense, for one so young.”

“Do not count on his council, great, powerful Elf. His grandfather was Ulfang, the Great Betrayer. At least he had the decency to show up.” 

Beleg looked down, unable to meet Androg’s eyes. 

“Ah, yes. We still feel the bite of the Nirnaeth. But you?” Androg lifted Beleg’s face with his fingers. “Still pretty.”

Beleg jerked his head away, but he looked on Androg. “You know Neithan. You _know_ him. I am his friend, Androg. I mean you no harm. Let me go and we can go look for him, together. He is not one to wander and I’ve seen you shoo—“

Androg smote him across the face. Beleg spat blood, shock masking his pain.

“You think you know everything,” Androg growled, rising. “Stay here and stay hidden. That is what you Grey Elves are good for.”

Androg touched Belthronding, eyes alight with wonder and then with hate. Then he put it down and he left Beleg there for the next two nights without food or water, but with his bow and arrow. Those Androg would not touch.

Life in the woods was exhausting and Neithan’s mood changed much once he saw Beleg was kept captive. When Neithan asked Beleg of all that had been done to him, Beleg kept Androg’s name from his mouth. Androg did not understand, but he did not question it. Survival was survival and everything the Elf did was to Androg done out of malice.

They fought winter and they fought orcs, but much changed under the protection of the House of Ransom and Mim the Petty-dwarf in his home on Amon Rudh. 

Androg hated Mim with the same fire he hated everything, but the House of Ransom was a haven in the wilderness the outlaws came to need and use and some to love, having never known a home since the Nirnaeth took their fathers and Easterlings their home.

Beleg wandered the House with a careful eye and keener ear, Anglachel whispering always to keep caution, and that is how he found Mim and Androg amidst an argument in a shadowed corner.

“Neithan wants us,” he said to stop the fray.

Mim the Petty-dwarf laughed. He was in Androg’s grasps, feet dangling in the air. 

“Hear that, Man,” said Mim. “The master wants us.”

“Not you,” said Beleg. “Just Androg.”

Androg let Mim go, shoving him against a wall. No one but Neithan could make Androg act. Androg frowned at Mim, who smiled up at him, his curse ever present between them. If Androg picked up a bow again, he would die. 

Androg left Mim and walked alongside Beleg, silence smothering them. 

“Neithan is not here, is he?” asked Androg.

“He is not,” said Beleg.

“You did that so I wouldn’t kill Mim.”

“Yes, and you would not have killed Mim regardless. You do not wish to draw Neithan’s wrath.”

“I do not.”

“Then you aren’t just a stubborn brute,” said Beleg. 

Androg stopped. 

Beleg unsheathed a dwarven sword and handed it to him. It was light, fit for a bow man. “A stubborn brute will do against orcs.”

“Will it?” asked Androg.

Beleg shrugged mockingly and kept walking. “Let us hope so.”

“You hate this place,” said Androg, coming up beside him. 

“It is unlike Menegroth in every way,” said Beleg. “Except outside of it. Outisde the Girdle there is only orc work.”

And they fought together, fought against orcs and goblins and anyone who stood in their way, all at Neithan’s command and at their leisure.

Neithan relied on them both for council, or their ear at least. Neithan did not heed their warnings. 

North, South, East and West, they could see across all of Beleriand’s beauty and it’s terrors, and all could see them atop Amon Rudh.

Androg relieved Beleg of his watch atop the great green hill near dawn.

“This is fucking terrible,” said Androg with his customary spite. 

He rarely took the top watch, but many in their company were taken by a winter fever.

“It is a good place to hold up,” said Beleg. “Winter will be hard this year.” 

Beleg could smell the coming snow. It’s frost kept him awake at night, the only time he could be out and about without worry of either friend or foe, if the outlaws even considered him a friend. He spent much time away from Amon Rudh, cautious of its exposure, but when he did return it was to keep watch and tend to the many sick.

And to exchange a bitter word with Androg.

No matter that they avoided each other when Turin did not need them in the same place; they drew the worst luck in the House of Ransom random watch draw.

“I do not trust that dwarf,’” Androg spat for he hated Mim more than he hated Beleg.

“Who do you trust, Androg?”

Androg groaned. He never gained back Neithan’s full favor after he returned and found Beleg starving and bound, suspecting Androg though Beleg said not a word, and it had made the other men scorn him. Mim’s curse did not do him any favors either.

“What the fuck do you care?”

Beleg shook his head. “Always the poet.”

Androg grinned, taking much comfort in annoying the Elf, and he turned his back to the north, away from Angflaulith’s smoking gray ruin and Thangorodrim’s fires and other places, looking East to the rising sun. 

Beleg knew it was being pulled by one of the Valar, but Androg did not, and Androg stared at it, resentful of a beauty so close to the evil of Morgoth. 

“You may be right about Mim,” said Beleg with much resentment also. To face the rising sun, Beleg had to turn his back to Doriath in the west. The comfort of the House had made the outlaws less weary, but not Androg, and Beleg had reluctantly shared that sentiment.

Androg looked long at Beleg. “What? Surprised you agree with a petty Man?”

“No,” said Beleg with scorn and some amusement. “I am surprised I agree with such a fucking stubborn brute.”

Androg held his tongue, and then he smiled, having never heard Beleg curse. “He’s with him now. Best to avoid Neithan after he’s had a chat with Mim. He hates the Eldar more than I do.”

Beleg saw Androg fidget with the scabbard on his side. He was unaccustomed to the sword and missed the quiver. Androg had worn his on his belt, unlike many others who had taken to wearing their arrows on their backs. Beleg wore his on his belt also. 

“I am not an Eldar, not as you know it,” said Beleg. He’d meant to correct Androg sooner, but he did not want to educated the man.

“You are an Elf. Elves are Eldar.”

“The Elves who have seen the light of Valinor are Eldar. I have always lived here. I was born here. Like you.” Beleg pointed to a far off star already fading into daylight’s morning. “Under there.”

Androg became quiet. “That way is Dor-lomin.”

“I suppose it is. I am from further east.”

Androg swallowed hard, as if the words were hard to say. “I… I am from Dor-lomin. I was. That place is lost now. Lost like everything northeast of here.”

Beleg nodded. He’d known nothing of Androg, but he knew much of Dor-lomin, for it was Turin’s rightful domain. He felt pity for Androg then, who did not know Neithan was more than just his captain.

“That way lies Thangorodrim,” said Androg with a quiet, vengeful wrath.

And Beleg, who chose never to think at all of his Enemy except to be rid of him and his, felt all at once the terror of Man, and the unquenchable fire that drove them to fight, even to the peril of their bodies. They did not have Mandos. They had nothing, only this life.

Androg was reckless with his and he became one of Beleg’s charges after an affray many weeks into the bitter winter. Androg had taken up the bow again, calling upon him Mim’s curse for using his bow so swiftly and killing his son Khim.

Bleeding and dying, Androg pushed Ulrad away and cursed him never return again. Beleg went to him with his healing arts.

“He means to comfort you,” said Beleg.

“What comfort? I am to die.”

“I thought Neithan was stubborn. You are… something else.”

Androg shoved Beleg’s healing away. “Leave me. The curse is on me. The fucking little shit Mim. _Fuck_ him.”

“Always the poet.” Beleg pressed a cloth drenched in wine to Androg’s wound, and Androg groaned in pain, heaving hard and turning red.

“You did that on purpose,” said Androg through gritted teeth.

“I am an arrogant, honor bound Elf. I would never.”

In his pain, Androg managed to laugh. He stopped resisting.

“What if the curse takes me?” asked Androg. The elf’s strange magic was helping some, but he smelled foul blood in the air. His death was coming. “I would have shot him if I could. I killed his son. I’d do it again.”

Beleg forced pressure on his wound again, making Androg yell in pain. 

“You fucking son of a bitch!”

Beleg considered that. “I have honestly never heard that one before.”

Androg grabbed Beleg by the neck and pulled him close, his breath close to his mouth. “Damned dark elf.”

Beleg bit down on a smile, holding firm as Androg pulled, but Androg lost all of his strength in mere seconds, and he let go, falling unconscious.

Amon Rudh was betrayed not long thereafter and only Beleg and Androg were unsurprised. 

Androg had laid long in his fever, losing much strength, but the sounds of clashing iron and steel drew him back to the endless caverns in the House of Ransom, overtaken and overrun by orcs.

Once again he was fighting for his life, and he was sick of it, sick of orc blood and the screams of dying men. He did not feel the many wounds of his body until he was pulled out of a mount of disgusting rank orc.

“Get up, you fool.”

Androg spat blood. “Beleg?”

Beleg lifted him and on Androg’s other side was Neithan. 

“Neithan,” smiled Androg, his mouth tinged with the iron of blood. “There’s a way,” he said suddenly, remembering, his instincts sharpened as death neared. “I have kept it from you. I am sorry.”

“Show us,” said Neithan, shrugging away the well kept lie, for he knew something of lying.

Beleg pulled Androg up and forced up his face. “Show me.”

Androg held onto him. “That way. Away from Thangorodrim.”

They escaped through the secret stair, but Androg could not go on. Beleg held him up with pure strength, staying when Turin and the others departed.

Beleg held his neck, feeling the life drain out of him, but Androg shoved Beleg away. 

“You Elves. Go hide back in your kingdom, where you are safe.” 

Androg fell into a blood-drenched sleep, and the sounds of death were all about him. His pain left him and there were only his arms. And he was not dead, not yet.

He crawled pass his men, pass dead Ulrad, and he climbed the secret stair like the worm he was, watching the last of the orcs meet the last of the outlaws, his captain Neithan lost and the famed bowman bound helpless. Good, for he hated him… 

Or perhaps not.

He did not know.

Mim, the Petty-dwarf that had saved them and betrayed them, him he hated.

The dwarf stood over a bound Beleg. Androg yelled his last, and Mim was gone. 

“You fucking coward!” yelled Androg.

“Always the poet.” 

He cut Beleg free and fell. 

“My hurts are too deep even for your healing,” said Androg, whose eyes were dimming.

Beleg held him in his arms, hate growing in his heart, not for Androg, but for the unfairness of time. There was not enough of it, and before he could curse Androg, Androg was gone, gone forever. And he sat alone on the hill of Amon Rudh, his mission failed, for Turin was gone, and Belthronding lost, and he did not understand why he did not wish to move, and the rage inside of him grew.

 

**The End**


End file.
